


Mouth

by capncrystal



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Shoot Shoot Bang Bang, fulcrum is a stone cold bitch, misfire is a fucking menace, scavengers, song lyrics for titles because I'm that basic bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 01:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capncrystal/pseuds/capncrystal
Summary: Misfire finds a new and inventive way to lose at Shoot Shoot Bang Bang, and naturally, he drags Fulcrum down with him.





	Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> All your metal armor drags me down,  
Nothing hurts like your mouth.  
Gift for Sharkrocket on Tumblr. Thank you for your art and your hilarious prompts.

The hallway was dim and smokey from some casualty from Krok’s quarters, nothing that had exploded immediately so nothing worth stopping to check over. Frankly, there were more urgent things to worry about; with enemies so close, he would more likely die riddled with bullets than from any ship malfunctions. Fulcrum paused with his back to the wall before moving on his slow, careful way through the ship. If there was anyone around the corner, they were silently waiting for him, so he'd either be safe or die quickly. It was about the odds he’d been used to since being reformatted, so he refused to let himself get bothered over something he couldn’t control.

For such a tiny ship, the Weak Anthropic Principal (and he  _ still  _ couldn’t decide if that was the best name for a vessel he’d ever heard, or the worst) had a shocking amount of hidey holes. Then again- intergalactic smugglers and scavengers would need  _ exactly  _ that kind of ship. It was useful, at least when he knew where the secret compartments were rather than tripping in an unexpected hole and waiting three days for Spinister to get around to soldering his ankle joint back together. 

Invent, exvent. No need to get annoyed about the past now.

With a soft grunt, Fulcrum burst out from around the corner and dashed to the next spot with cover. He made it in three clicks, ducking with his head between his knees, gun at the ready, listening for any sign he’d been heard. After several more clicks without so much as a scrape of a peded on the floor or a hiss of hydraulics, he let himself relax enough to look over the overturned crate that had been kind enough to shelter him. 

"Psst! Hey, idiot!" 

Fulcrum froze for several seconds before slowly swinging his head around to look over his right shoulder. Misfire was leaning out from an open door, waving him over with grinning urgency. Fulcrum very quickly weighed the pros and cons: they were on the same team, for what little that mattered in a group like the Scavengers, and Misfire did occasionally have brilliant ideas. Most of the time, though, he was an arrogant, self-serving bastard, a decepticon to the core. He was flighty, scatterbrained, and his plans ended in catastrophic failure more often than not. The best way for Fulcrum to stay alive would honestly be to run far away very fast and leave Misfire to whatever harebrained shenanigans he'd thought up to get them out of this alive. 

Fulcrum glanced around, then did in fact ran as fast as his little robot legs would carry him. Unfortunately, he seemed to have decided to run towards Misfire instead of away from him. When he was close enough, Misfire grabbed his hand and pulled Fulcrum into the room he'd been hiding in. They closed the door and crouched, silent, waiting for the telltale pops of gunfire to spell their end. None came. 

"Eh, not bad, pipsqueak." Misfire playfully punched Fulcrum's shoulder, rising to his full height. "Now quickly. What's your plan for getting us out of this mess?" 

"My plan?" Fulcrum sputtered, indignant. "I assumed you had a plan!" 

"Course i've got a plan! I've got nine plans! Just…. None of them will really… work. You know, in the 'getting us out alive' sense." Misfire waved his hands as he always did while talking, nearly hitting Fulcrum twice. "So unless you can come up with some genius in that tiny brain of yours, i'll have to move to plan number ten, and you are really not very worthy of plan number ten. It's a doozy." 

"Will it get us out alive?" 

"Probably not." 

"Is it better than your other plans?" 

"By a long shot, yeah." 

Fulcrum glared at Misfire. "Then plan ten it is." Fulcrum tried to inject his voice with every aunce of borrowed authority he could manage. Misfire simply shrugged. 

"Alright, you asked for it. Plan ten it is." 

Without further warning, Misfire yanked Fulcrum closer. He pressed the bomb’s back against the wall and pressed their lips together in a  _ highly  _ uncalled-for kiss. As soon as he was done being startled, Fulcrum shoved him off, or tried to; he managed to budge the larger flyer all of an inch. 

"What're you thinking? What the hell kind of plan is this???" Fulcrum wiped his lips, optics wide and never once leaving Misfire's smug bastard face. Honestly, there was a time and there was a place, and Misfire was pretending this was both of those.

"The kind where at least we get a little fun in before being shot?" 

The frustration Fulcrum felt could not be measured. "Misfire, _ I want to live _ !!!" 

Misfire leaned in close again, grinning against Fulcrum's lips- and, damn it, how was he this handsome even with his trademarked slag eating grin taking up half his face? 

"Live in the moment," Misfire suggested, and then they were kissing again. It was electric. No, really. Fulcrum felt Misfire’s lips all the way down to the tips of his pedes and servos, the strange and almost pleasant buzzing of brushing up against an unprotected wire with a low voltage.

"What the frag-” Fulcrum turned his head- a mistake, since now Misfire was tingling along his jawline and weird or not, that could definitely continue for a while before Fulcrum would protest. Somehow, he persevered. “Why are you all tingly?"

"You like it?" Misfire grinned against Fulcrum's neck cording, just under the strap of his helm. "It's a mod. Been  _ dying  _ to try it out."

Fulcrum stared at the wall opposite, nonplussed, then rolled his eyes, gave up on protesting  _ time  _ and/or  _ place _ , and pulled Misfire back up to continue kissing him. The mod was just so- so  _ Misfire _ , but it seemed to be affecting the hydraulics in his knees because the more they kissed, the more difficulty Fulcrum had standing. Had to be the mod, right? It was the only logical explanation. Misfire kissed like it was some fantastic idea he'd just come up with, pure focus and enthusiasm that tore right through Fulcrum's defenses and left him vocalizing the faintest hum of pure arousal. Distantly, he figured Misfire had, oh, fifteen minutes before getting bored and finding the next shiny topic to put his attention on. He’d leave Fulcrum behind, frustrated, horny, and probably covered in paintballs from Shoot Shoot Bang Bang. But damn if Misfire wasn’t a great kisser, when the mood struck him.

It was a mistake to egg him on, but damn, maybe this was one of Misfire's better plans after all. Screw the guns and the smoke and the inevitable conclusion, and Krok’s promise (or threat) of a grand funeral procession after the smoke cleared. Misfire was digging his fingers into a transformation seam at Fulcrum’s hip and the rest of the world could go frag itself. 

Fulcrum’s knees actually shuddered and he grabbed Misfire’s shoulder for balance. He heard the jet hum in amusement and pull away slightly, which was, frankly, very rude of him. The least Misfire could do would be to press in closer, maybe slide one thigh between Fulcrum’s to brush against his panel-

**Pop**

Once again, all Fulcrum could do was stare wordlessly, and only partly because his circuits were fried with charge. Misfire stepped away, twirling his pistol on his finger, and Fulcrum could feel wet dripping down his torso to the floor. 

"What the SLAG. We're on the same team."

"Decepticon," Misfire sing-songed as he looked over his handiwork. “Don’t tell me you trusted me? You really are the worst Decepticon ever.”

Fulcrum closed his eyes and sighed, mentally weighing his options and forcing his charge back down. Deadly calm fell over him like a blanket of ash and he looked up, lifted his own paintball-spitting handgun, and shot Misfire right back. 

“Hey!” Misfire’s scandalized, overdramatic gasp was nearly Starscreamesque. “You’re dead, loser, that doesn’t count!” 

“Takes a double tap for an immediate kill,” Fulcrum smirked. “Decepticon~” he mockingly sang out, copying Misfire’s taunt. 

~

When Crankcase found them later, they were nearly unrecognizable. The two looked like they had emptied their paintball guns on each other, then had a wrestling match with the goal of getting yellow paint on every surface in the room. Krok would be having a fit later. They weren’t even on opposing teams this time, and they still managed to frag up half the ship. 

“Idiots,” he scowled, double tapping each of them them with his own blue paint pellets. He ignored their startled squawks and strolled off to the robokitchen to refuel, having handily won this week’s round of Shoot Shoot Bang Bang.


End file.
